


a friend who bleeds is better

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal being possessive and creepy, M/M, bloodplay kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal arranges for Will to be kidnapped and raped/tortured by another sadistic psychopath (You could go wild with the rape/torture part.) Will is blindfolded throughout the ordeal and can't see Hannibal is standing off the side and watching everything. Hannibal keeps talking to Will the entire time and Will, thinking Hannibal is only in his head, opens up and tells him a lot of things. When Hannibal is satisfied he tells the OC to bug off and pretends to rescue Will. Prompt original from here: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3239110#cmt3239110</p>
            </blockquote>





	a friend who bleeds is better

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you work on something so much that you get sick of it and never want to look at it again? Yeah.

"Relax Will. It is only a flesh wound."  
  
"Hurts like hell though," Will grits.  
  
"I imagine it does."  
  
"The blindfold makes it worse. Can't anticipate."  
  
"Yes," Hannibal agrees. "That does sound unpleasant."  
  
He'd found Emmett Jones easily enough. He was a sloppy, wasteful killer who had wandered into Hannibal's turf, both literally and figuratively. He'd burst through Hannibal's door looking for Will Graham. The opportunity was too good to pass up.  
  
Now he stares at Hannibal, eyes wide, fear rolling off of him in waves. He cannot run - Hannibal has him hobbled, rope bound around his ankles so that he can only move in a shuffling pace. He cannot speak - his tongue is currently in Hannibal's freezer. He will enjoy eating it; the man had a penchant for babbling on and on about things that were most distasteful.  
  
When Hannibal focuses on Will again, he is breathing in short shallow bursts. He can practically hear the thuds and stutters of Will's heart.  
  
"Deep breaths. Focus on what you are aware of; the feel of the blindfold and the rope around your wrists and ankles. The scent of your blood. The sound of my voice."  
  
"You're not even real."  
  
"The power of the mind is a beautiful thing," Hannibal responds dryly, as if Will had been commenting on the weather. "Real or not real, I have a stabilizing effect on you." He gestures to Jones, draws a line from the underside of his ribs to the tip of his diaphragm, nodding once. Jones mimics him beautifully, flesh parting like silk to scissors.  
  
"Should've stayed a teacher," Will chokes.  
  
"Nonsense. You would not have been able to live with yourself if you had. To let people die when you could have saved them goes against the very nature of who you are. It is what I find fascinating about you. You are a very selfless person, Will."  
  
"And look where it got me."  
  
Jones kneels, gloved fingers holding strips of flesh apart, spreading the wound open. Blood stains the latex. The scalpel rests easily in the cleft. Will squirms, succeeding only in knocking the chair back against the wall.  
  
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" He says and Jones drags the scalpel down. Blood, hot and sticky flows in bursts, pulsing in time to the hammer of Will's heart. He screams.  
  
"You are not going to die," Hannibal affirms and it's true. "I would not let you."  
  
"You're - not - real."  
  
"Would the real Dr. Lecter let you die?"  
  
"He's not a god."  
  
"Yet you trust him implicitly, do you not? When you doubt yourself, you turn to him. One could draw religious parallels."  
  
"One could. I wouldn't-" Will stops, breath hissing through his teeth. Hannibal watches with professional curiosity as Jones traces Will's clavicle with the blade. He takes a step towards Will, leans forward and inhales. His Will. Bound to a chair in nothing but boxers, a blindfold and his blood, Will is beautiful. He smells of fear, heady and strong, mixed with the familiar scent of blood. It is intoxicating.  
  
Arousal is not a sensation that Hannibal is entirely comfortable with; at least, not in this scenario. He's always found the sexualization of murder to be rather blasé. He is a huntsman and an artist first and foremost. There has been nothing sexual about his kills before this, before Will.  
  
He wants very suddenly to cut Will's mouth, to see blood staining his lips and teeth. Wordlessly he turns to Jones, and gestures to his lips. The man does it with ease, cutting a line from top to bottom. It will scar, Hannibal thinks dimly, but not badly. He anticipates feeling it with his mouth, tracing it with his tongue. He can almost see Will's canines through the wound, smears of pink shining with saliva and blood, froth dribbling on his chin.  
  
"Hannibal," he sobs in a voice that goes straight down Hannibal's spine, "don't leave me." The split skin of his lips flutter with the exertion of speaking.  
  
"My dear Will," he says smoothly. "I would never."  
  
The next cut is from the hollow of Wil's collarbones to his sternum. Will is past screaming now. His breathing is ragged, as if each intake of breath isn't worth the effort it takes. He is no longer crying, though his cheeks are still wet. Hannibal had never been prouder. His Will, determined to hold on to dignity, even in the face of death. There is no begging or pleading, no threats - so very different from the man who stands above him, scalpel in hand. So much _better_.  
  
By the time Jones is aware of his presence behind him, it is too late. The needle slides easily into his vein; Hannibal has far too many years of practice to make mistakes now. He catches Jones in his arms as he crumples, with one hand keeping his grip on the scalpel. Careful not to make a sound, Hannibal lowers Jones to the ground, and removes a pair of latex gloves from his waistcoat pocket.  
  
For now, Jones will sleep. Later tonight, before he returns to Will, Hannibal will butcher him. It would be easy enough to cut his throat now, and watch him bleed to death on Will's kitchen floor, but Hannibal needs the body to disappear. He needs Will and Crawford to believe that Jones is still out there. He wants Will afraid and vulnerable, and he wants Will to turn to him with that fear.  
  
Picking up the scalpel, Hannibal turns his attention to Will once more. With a hand palming Will's cock through his briefs, he draws a shallow line across Will's thigh. It's done to catch Will's attention more than anything, and sure enough, Will hisses and recoils from Hannibal's hand.  
  
"He's stopped cutting you?"  
  
"I wish he hadn't."  
  
"What do you see Will?"  
  
" _Nothing_ " Will snaps, and a bubble of hysterical laughter escapes him. "I'm blindfolded, remember?"  
  
"I refer to his intentions. What does he mean to do to you?"  
  
"Humiliate me."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Will's voice is tight. His cock is beginning to harden beneath Hannibal's hand. "It's not enough to kill me and the wounds are all easily concealed. He's - he's not marking me. Then why?"  
  
"Not marking you? Then this is not personal."  
  
"No," Will says. "It is. He's... testing, looking, exploring. Exploring me. He wants to see how I look like this. He wants to revel in it."  
  
"Yes," Hannibal breathes, and it takes every modicum of control he has to keep his voice steady. "I believe you are correct."  
  
He removes his hand from Will's groin, and Will breathes a sigh of relief. He wants to fuck Will, to fuck Will and mark him, to leave him naked with semen dripping out of him for Crawford to find. He knows better than to risk leaving anything that could tie him to this, but the need is so strong that he has to take a moment to collect himself. Then he begins divesting Will of his boxers.  
  
Will is flaccid when Hannibal's hands find him again, and he flinches at the feel of the glove around his cock.  
  
"Talk to me, Will," Hannibal says, voice smooth. What is he doing to you?"  
  
"He-" Will pauses, and then, "I can't."  
  
"Will." Hannibal's voice is firm, chiding, and Will shrinks into himself. "Talking to this illusion of me now will help you to cope with your trauma later on. It provides you with a narrative that allows you to compartmentalize the humiliation of a sexual assault."  
  
"Logical," Will rasps. Hannibal waits for one beat, two, three.  
  
"I'm scared."  
  
"Of?"  
  
"Of this. His hands on me. Of - of telling you later. And Jack," he amends hastily.  
  
"Nonsense Will. There is nothing to be afraid of. We will not judge you."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Tell me now. It will ease your fear."  
  
"He's - he's jerking me off," Will says in a rush.  
  
Hannibal smiles.  
  
"Are you hard?"  
  
"Yes," Will whispers, and his shame is palpable.  
  
"It is a normal biological response to stimulus, unwanted or otherwise. Please do not feel as though this means you are deserving of this."  
  
For a moment Will says nothing. Hannibal remains crouched, head between Will's knees, hand stroking Will's cock. He runs a thumb over his head, smearing fluid, and Will inhales sharply, hips jerking upwards.  
  
"He feels good," Will finally says, in the voice of a broken man. "He could make me..."  
  
"Could?"  
  
"Would. Will. He will make me come."  
  
Hannibal stands, and when he releases Will he moans softly. The noise goes straight to Hannibal's groin, a spark of arousal that alarms Hannibal with it's strength. It has been far too long; Will is entrancing, here in front of him, warm and bleeding and afraid.  
  
At the sound of his belt being undone, Will whimpers. Whether in trepidation or anticipation, Hannibal is unsure.  
  
"He's going to fuck me," Will says. "I don't - I don't -"  
  
"Shhh, Will. It is going to be alright. You are going to be alright."  
  
Belt removed, Hannibal presses it against Will's neck. The touch is light, testing, teasing, and at Will's noise of dismay, he pushes it tighter until Will's skin is a bloodless white around the edges of the leather.  
  
"What is he doing now? Tell me."  
  
"He's -" Will's voice is strained "- I think he's killing me."  
  
"Resist," Hannibal says and Will does. He lurches his head forwards, as if to headbutt Hannibal. With his neck leaning forward, Hannibal loops the belt around him and yanks. Will gasps at the sudden lack of oxygen.  
  
"Resist." Hannibal threads the belt through the belt loop.  
  
"Resist." Slips a finger in between the leather and Will's skin to make sure that there is no risk of accidentally asphyxiating him.  
  
"Resist." Gives a tug at the makeshift collar.  
  
"I can't," Will finally chokes, and for that admission, Hannibal takes his cock in his mouth.  
  
Will stiffens almost immediately, firm heaviness on Hannibal's tongue. Cheeks hollowed, Hannibal sucks in earnest and is rewarded with the salty taste of pre-ejaculate. He removes himself from Will with an obscene sound that Hannibal will one day enjoy reveling in.  
  
"Talk me through this, Will," Hannibal admonishes. His mouth hovers over Will; teasingly he flicks his tongue across the slit of Will's cock. A hand tugs at his belt until Will's chin is touching his chest.  
  
"Sucking me," Will gasps. "He has me collared."  
  
"And how does it feel? How do you feel?"  
  
"Good. Bad."  
  
Hannibal hums with approval and brings his mouth back down. He runs his tongue from tip to shaft, free hand cupping Will's testicles, and Will is coming suddenly and without warning. He tastes salty and unremarkable and Hannibal loves it. It is not his usual method of consumption, but he'll take Will any way he can get him.  
  
Standing, he tucks Will back into his boxers with an affection pat, and unzips his fly.  
  
He is hard, harder than he has been in a long time. Sexual appetite is far from Hannibal's mind and has been for some time. It is a vulgar preoccupation for vulgar people. But Will is pure and there is a beauty in that, a beauty in despoiling him. One day he will bring Will over the edge and see the landscapes of his mind as wrecked as he is now, physically. He will mark Will as his equal and his lover.  
  
Positioned above Will's chest with a hand holding the belt around Will's neck, Hannibal wraps a hand around his cock. The sight of him bloodied and blindfolded is enough and Hannibal comes, thin ropes splattering on Will's chest. From his breast pocket he removes a handkerchief and wipes away the evidence. Later, when Will is unconscious and Jones has been removed, he will wash him with water and soap.  
  
"Will?" He prompts as he loosening the belt.  
  
"Done."  
  
"Good. Now go to sleep." He snaps Will's head against the wall behind him and Will sags. Standing, Hannibal zips his pants and redoes his belt.  
  
                                                                                                                                                 *  
  
"Will. _Will._ "  
  
He awakens with a whimper not a bang. Vision returns slowly to eyes deprived of light for hours. His hands and feet are numb, rope burns along their wrists and ankles.  
  
Hannibal's face swims into view, a beacon in a literal sea of darkness. There is a warmth on his hand. Looking, Will sees Hannibal's hand on his, gently massaging the chafed skin.  
  
"Will. Are you alright?"  
  
"Yeah," he rasps. It's patently untrue but for now it will do. The look on Hannibal's face suggests that he doesn't believe him, but he remains quiet and that is enough.  
  
Hannibal drags his thumb across Will'a knuckles. Will looks at his hand, then at Hannibal, then back at the hand.  
  
"Will," Hannibal says with a voice like honey.

"Tell me what happened."


End file.
